“Brown shell first for the butterflyAnd a bright wing by and by.Butterfly good-bye to your shell,And, bright wings, speed you well”
In leaving the train Maggie had not yielded to a passing impulse. It was a deliberate act. David’s indifference to her happiness, his subordination of all her likes and dislikes, her time, and work, and hopes, to his own ambition shocked and pained her. She had spent the night in thought and had reached a decided conclusion. As they walked about the cathedral and college, and up and down the High Street, while she looked with shuddering horror on the squalid, hopeless poverty of the inhabitants of those localities, she asked her brother where the rich people lived.
“At the West End,” answered David. “On Sauchiehall Road, and the crescents further on, away maistly up to Kelvin Grove.” And later on, as they were passing down Buchanan Street, he pointed out the stages which ran constantly to these aristocratic quarters of the city, and asked, “if she wished to see them?”
“Ay, I wad like too, but there’s little time noo, it will do again.”
Yet she took good note of everything, and David Promoter, as he sat that night at his own fireside with his tea and books, little dreamed that his sister Maggie had found herself a home within an hour’s ride from the Candleriggs. It was not much of a home, but it satisfied the weary, heart-sore girl. A little back room on a fourth story, with a window looking into a small court; but it was clean and quiet, and the bit of fire burned cheerily, and the widow woman from whom she had rented it made her a refreshing cup of tea, and brought with it the good wheat loaf and the “powdered” butter for which Glasgow is famous; as well as a slice or two of broiled Ayrshire bacon. The food was cheap, and the ordinary food of the people, but it seemed a great treat to the fisher-girl, who had been used to consider wheat flour, fine butter, and bacon, very like luxuries.
And the peace! Oh how good, how good that was! No captious old woman flyting and complaining at every mouthful. No laughing noisy gossips. No irritating interferences. No constant demand on her attention or sympathy. She sat and drank and thanked God with every mouthful; and with grateful tears promised Him to live a good life, and do her honest, kindly duty every hour.
At last too, she could think of Allan without fear of any evil suspicious eye upon her. She had been in such excitement and anxiety for some days, that she had let him slip from her mind; for it was one of this loving woman’s superstitions, never to mix his memory with angry or sorrowful thoughts. But in the peace and stillness that followed her meal, she called him back to her. With closed eyes and folded hands she remembered the words he had said to her, remembered the strength and sincerity of his promise, the glow and tenderness of his handsome face, the truth in the firm clasp of his hands, the glance of commingled love and grief which had been his farewell. “I’ll never wrong him by a doubt. Never, never, never,” she whispered. “If God has willed him to me, there’s nane can keep him frae me. Oceans canna part us, nor gold, nor friends, nor time, nor death itself.Allan! Allan! Allan!”
At that moment Allan was in a pretty pleasure yacht idly drifting on the gulf of Mexico. Mardi Gras had taken him to New Orleans, and there he had hired the boat, and was leisurely sailing from one gulf town to another. The skipper was his only companion, but he was fore, and Allan lay under an awning, full of the afternoon’s lazy content. The scent of orange blossoms was blown from the shore, the blue waters dimpled in the sunshine, and the flop of their ripple in the clincher-landings was an old and pleasant music to him. Suddenly he sat erect and listened: “Maggie called me. Three times over she called me.” The impression upon his spiritual ear was so strong that ere he was aware he had answered the call.
He could dream no longer. His nobler part was on the alert. He was not, however, unhappy. The impression made upon him had been one of love and longing, rather than of distress. His eyes brightened, his face flushed, he walked rapidly about, like a man under a keener sense of life. Lovers see miracles, and believe in them. Allan thought it nothing extraordinary that Maggie’s soul should speak to his soul. And why should we doubt the greeting? Do we any of us know what subtle lines are between spirit and spirit? A few years since, who dreamed of sending a message through the air? Is it not more incredible that flesh and blood in New York should speak with flesh and blood in Washington, than that spirits, rare, rapid and vivid as thought, should communicate with each other, even though the circumference of the world be between them? Allan did not try to analyze the circumstance; he had a conviction, positive and delicious, and he never thought of reasoning it away.
With a sense of infinite comfort and content, Maggie read her evening portion, and went to rest. She had determined to enjoy that evening’s calm, without letting any thought of the future trouble her; and she awoke in the morning strong and cheerful, and quite ready to face the question of her support. She spoke first to her landlady. “Mistress Malcolm,” she said, “I’m a dressmaker, and I want wark. Will you gie me your advice, for I’m not used to city ways?”
“You hae come to the city in a good time though. In the spring there is aye work in plenty. Tak’ the ‘Herald’ and read the advertisements. I hae a paper ben the kitchen, I’ll get it for you. See here now! Nae less than nine dressmakers wanting help! The first call comes frae Bute Crescent; that isna ten minutes walk awa’. Go and see the lady.”
Half an hour afterward, Maggie was ringing at the door of Mrs. Lauder’s house. It was a very handsome one, handsomely furnished, and the show-rooms were gay with the newest fashions. Maggie’s beauty and fine figure was an instant commendation. “Can you sew well, and cut, and fit?” asked Mrs. Lauder.
“‘Deed, ma’am, I think I can. I was wi’ Miss Jean Anderson o’ Largo for twa years. She’ll say the gude word for me, every way.”
“I shall want you to be part of the day in the salesroom; but I will provide you a suitable dress for that purpose; and I will give you ten shillings a week, at first. Will that do?”
“It will do weel, ma’am.”
“What is your name?”
“Maggie Promoter.”
“Come to-morrow, Miss Promoter.”
“Folks aye call me Maggie.”
“Very well. Come to-morrow, Maggie.”
The dress provided by Mrs. Lauder was a long, plain, black merino, tightly fitting, with small turned back linen cuffs and collar; and Maggie looked exceedingly handsome and stately in it. Her work was not hard, but the hours were long, and there was no outlook. She could not lift her head and catch from the sea the feeling of limitless space and freedom. Still she was happy. It was better to live among strangers who always gave her the civil word, than to be with kin who used the freedom of their relationship only to wound and annoy her. And her little room was always a sanctuary in which she found strength and peace. Also, the Sabbath was all her own; and her place in the kirk to which she regularly went was generally filled an hour before service bells. That kirk was a good place to Maggie. She was one of those delightsome women, who in this faithless age, have a fervent and beautiful faith in God. Into His temple she took no earthly thought, but kept her heart, there,
“one silent space,A little sacred spot of loneliness.Where to set up the memory of His cross,A little quiet garden, sacred stillTo visions of His sorrow, and His love”
So the weeks went calmly, and not unpleasantly away. Now and then she had a restless heartache about David; and three times she walked all the way to the Barony kirk, where she knew he worshiped, to get a sight of her brother. She did not fear to do so. David Promoter, on Sabbath days, looked neither to the right hand nor to the left. In the kirk his pale grave face was bent toward his Bible, or lifted to the preacher. Maggie could have sat within the touch of his hand and he would not have seen her. But she got no comfort from these visits to David’s kirk, and she missed all the comfort of her own kirk. So she finally said to herself—“I’ll tak’ my ain road, and I’ll ne’er look his road, and when it will be the right time, the twa roads will meet again.”
As the summer advanced there was less work to do, and she frequently was at home in sufficient time to stroll along Kelvin side, or visit the Botanic Gardens. Inland scenery, trees, and, above all things, flowers, greatly delighted her. It gave her a thrill of exquisite pleasure to tread among long, green grass, and feel the wavering sunshine and shadows of the woods about her; and in the midsummer month, when she was to have a short holiday, she promised herself many days of such pure and natural enjoyment.
But often fortune has better plans for us than we make for ourselves. One day, near the end of June, Maggie was standing at an upper window, gazing wistfully at the little park, full of pretty shrubs, which belonged specially to Bute Crescent. A handsome carriage rapidly took the turn, came dashing up the broad gravelled sweep, and stopped at Mrs. Lauder’s house. In a few minutes there was a call for Maggie, and she went down stairs. The customer was before a long mirror with a mantle of black silk and lace in her hands. She was a young lady, slight and small, and as Maggie entered she turned toward her.
It was Mary Campbell, and Mary knew in a moment who the tall beautiful woman in the black dress was. She was very much astonished, but she did not in any way betray her surprise. On the contrary, she gathered her faculties quickly together and looked at Maggie critically, and at first without kindness.
Mary was at this time living at Drumloch, but a variety of business had brought her to Glasgow for a week or two. Her first impulse was to go to her uncle and tell him of her discovery. Her second was to keep it, at least for a little while, to herself. It was almost certain that there had been some great change in the girl’s circumstances, or else she had come to Glasgow in search of her lover. Mary could not tell how much or how little Maggie knew of Allan’s movements and intentions; she thought it likely the girl had grown impatient and left her home. If so, perhaps it was her duty to interfere in a life brought so directly to her notice. She almost wished she had not seen her; gratified curiosity is very well, but if it bring with it a sense of obligation, it may not be worth the price to be paid.
Such were the drift of Mary’s thoughts; and yet for Allan’s sake she felt that Maggie ought to be cared for. If she did not choose to assume the charge, she ought to tell her uncle. Mary’s conscience had taken up the question, and Mary’s conscience was a tyrannical one. It gave her no rest about Maggie. “Maggie!” She repeated the name with a smile. “I knew she would have to come down to ‘Maggie’ or ‘Jennie’. I said so. Oh, Theodora, what a fall! But she is handsome, there is no doubt of that. And she walks as a mortal ought to walk, ‘made a little lower than the angels’. And she really has a ravishing smile, and perfect teeth also. I own I was afraid about the teeth, nature generally forgets that detail. And her hands, if large, are shapely; and her hair is a glory, as it ought to be in a woman —and I wonder who taught her to dress it, and if she herself chose the long, plain, black garment. Maggie is more of a puzzle than ever. I think I will find her out without Uncle John’s help.”
The next day, and every day afterward for a week, she went to Mrs. Lauder’s on some pretext or other. She always saw Maggie. She made little plans to see her, and she went away from every interview feeling a greater bondage to her. “I suppose I shall have to take her back to Drumloch with me!” As her visit to Glasgow drew to its close she came to this conclusion. She felt that for Allan’s sake Maggie had a claim on their care; either John Campbell or herself ought to find out if she needed help or friends, and after consideration Mary thought she had better assume the charge. John Campbell would go straight to her, tell her who he was, and invite her to Blytheswood Square, and, in fact, take the girl wholly on trust. Mary also meant to be kind to her, but how hard it is for a woman to do a kindness as God does it, without saying, “Whose son art thou?”
Just before her return to Drumloch, she said to Mrs. Lauder, “I want some one to sew in my house. Do you think Maggie would give me a couple of months. You cannot need her until September.”
“I think she will be very willing. I will send her to you.”
“Mistress Lauder says you wad like me to go wi’ you, Miss Campbell. I’ll be glad to do it. I am just wearying for the country, and I’ll do my best to pleasure you.”
“Oh, thank you. It is to sew table damask. I will give you. #5 a month.”
“That is gude pay. I’ll be gratefu’ for it.”
“Be ready by nine o’clock to-morrow morning. I will call here for you.”
Drumloch was a very ancient place. The older portion was battlemented, and had been frequently held against powerful enemies; but this part of the building was merely the nucleus of many more modern additions. It stood in one of the loveliest locations in Ayrshire, and was in every respect a home of great splendor and beauty. Maggie had never dreamt of such a place. The lofty halls and rooms, the wide stairways, the picturesque air of antiquity, the fine park and gardens, the wealth of fruits and flowers quite bewildered her. Mary took her first real liking to the girl as she wandered with her through the pleasant places of Drumloch. Maggie said so frankly what she liked and what she did not like; and yet she had much graceful ingenuousness, and extremely delicate perceptions. Often she showed the blank amazement of a bird that has just left the nest, again she would utter some keen, deep saying, that made Mary turn to her with curious wonder. Individualities developed by the Bible have these strange contradictions, because to great guilelessness they unite an intimate knowledge of their own hearts.
Mary had been much troubled as to where, and how, she was to place this girl. As David had boasted, she belonged to a race “who serve not.” “She may come to be mistress of Drumloch. It is not improbable. I will not make a menial of her. That would be a shame and a wrong to Allan.” She had formed this decision as they rode together in the train, and acting upon it, she said, “Maggie, what is your name—all your name?”
“My name is Margaret Promoter. I hae been aye called Maggie.”
“I will call you Maggie, then; but my servants will call you Miss Promoter. You understand?”
“If it is your will, Miss Campbell.”
“It is my wish, Maggie. You are to be with me entirely; and they must respect my companion. Can you read aloud, Maggie?”
“I wad do my best.”
“Because I want you to read a great deal to me. There is so much fine sewing to do, I thought as we worked together one of us could have a needle, the other a book.”
Following out this idea, she gave Maggie a pretty room near her own. Into one adjoining immense quantities of the finest linen and damask were brought. “I am just going to housekeeping, Maggie,” said Mary, “and Drumloch is to have the handsomest napery in Ayrshire. Did you ever see lovelier damask? It is worthy of the most dainty stitches, and it shall have them.” Still Maggie’s domestic status hung in the balance. For a week her meals were served in her own room, on the plea of fatigue. Mary did not feel as if she could put her with the housekeeper and upper servants; she could not quite make up her mind to bring her to her own table. A conversation with Maggie one morning decided the matter. She found her standing at the open window looking over the lovely strath, and the “bonnie Doon,” with eyes full of happy tears.
“It is a sweet spot, Maggie.”
“It is the sweetest spot on earth, I think.”
“If we only had a view of the sea. We might have, by felling timber.”
Maggie shook her head. “I dinna like the sea. ‘There is sorrow on the sea, it canna be quiet.’ [Footnote: Jeremiah 49, v. 23.] I ken’t a fisher’s wife wha aye said, the sweetest promise in a’ the Book, was that in the Revelations, ‘there shall be nae sea there.’”
“Did you ever live near the sea?”
“Ay; I was born on the coast of Fife.”
“Have you any kin living?”
“I hae a brother—he minds me little.”
“Promoter, I never heard the name before.”
“It is a Fife name. The Promoters dinna wander far. If my fayther hadna been drowned, I should hae stayed wi’ my ain folk.”
“But you are glad to have seen more of the world. You would not like to go back to Fife, now?”
“If my eye hadna seen, my heart wouldna hae wanted. I was happy.”
“Promoter is an uncommon name. I never knew a Promoter before; but the Campbells are a big clan. I dare say you have known a great many Campbells?”
“The man whom fayther sold his fish to was a Campbell. And the woman I lodged wi’ in Glasgow had a daughter married to a Campbell. And Mistress Lauder often sent me to Campbell’s big store for silk and trimmings. And whiles, there was a minister preached in oor kirk, called Campbell—and there is yoursel’, miss, the best o’ them all to Maggie Promoter.”
“Thank you, Maggie.” Not in the faintest way had Maggie betrayed her knowledge of Allan, and Mary respected her for the reticence very much. “Now for our work. I will sew, and you shall read aloud. I want you to learn how to talk as I do, and reading aloud is an excellent exercise.”
“I’ll ne’er speak such high English as you, and I like my braid Scotch weel.”
“But your voice is so delightful when you say the words as you ought to. You can read ‘high English,’ why not talk it?”
“My ain tongue is mair homelike and kindly. But I’ll try yours, an’ you want me to.”
After Mary had listened an hour, she suddenly interrupted Maggie. “You read that love scene with wonderful feeling. Had you ever a lover, Maggie?”
“Maist girls have lovers. I couldna expect to escape. You will dootless hae lovers yoursel’, ma’am?”
“I had one lover, Maggie, not much of a lover, he wanted to marry Drumloch, not me.”
“That was a’ wrang. Folks shouldna marry for gold. Sorrow comes that way.”
“You would not, I am sure’”
“No, not for a’ the gold in Scotland.”
“Is your lover poor then, Maggie?”
“I ne’er asked him if he had this or that. He is a gude kind lad.”
“Did he ever give you any beautiful things—precious rings or lockets—as the lovers in books do? The Sir Everard of whom you have just been reading gave Lady Hilda a ring of diamonds and opals, you remember?”
“The Fife lads break a sixpence in twa wi’ their troth lass; and I hae my half sixpence. There can be no ring but a wedding ring for a lassie like me.”
Then Mary laid down her work, and as she passed Maggie she touched her gently, and smiled in her face. She was rapidly coming to a decision; a few minutes in her own room enabled her to reach it. “The girl is a born lady; I gave her every opportunity, but neither to the text of ‘Campbell,’ nor ‘lover,’ did she betray herself or Allan. And really, when I think of it, I had almost a special direction about her. I did not intend to go to Mrs. Lauder’s that morning. I should not have gone, if Madame Bartholemew had been at home. I should not have gone if Miss Fleming had been able to do my work. Maggie has evidently been put in my charge. Not to go any higher than Uncle John and Allan, I think when they demand her of me, they will say—‘Where is thy sister?’ not ‘Where is thy servant maid, or thy sewing maid.’ But I must be sure of myself. If I accept this obligation, I must accept it fully with all its contingencies and results. Can I be generous enough? Patient enough? Just enough? Loving enough?” And no wonder men honor good women! Who could have helped honoring Mary Campbell who saw her stand with honest purpose examining her own heart, and then lowly kneeling, asking God’s blessing and help for the resolve so consecrated.
It was no light favor to be quickly given and quickly removed. Most good things are gradual; and Mary’s kindness fell as the dew, a little in the morning, and a little in the evening. Here, a formality was dropped; there a tangible token of equality given. First, the evening dresses of white mull and pale merinos; then the meal at her table, and the seat in her carriage. And when this point had been reached, it had been so naturally and unobtrusively reached, that even the servants only remembered the first days of Maggie’s residence at Drumloch, as a time when “Miss Promoter dootless had a sorrow o’ her ain, and keepit much to hersel’.”
With a more conventional girl, Mary might have had much difficulty in reaching this state of affairs; but Maggie took her kindness with the simple pleasure and gratitude of a child; and she certainly had not the faintest conception of Mary Campbell’s relation to Allan.
Allan had distinctly spoken of his home as being in Bute; and of his cousin, as living in the same house with him from her childhood. Mary, in her own castle in Ayrshire, was certainly far enough away from all Allan’s statements to destroy every suspicion of her identify. And the name of “Campbell” told her nothing at all. As Mary said, “The Campbells were a big clan.” They abounded throughout the west of Scotland. Around Drumloch, every third man was a Campbell. In Glasgow the name was prominent on the sign boards of every street. In a Fife fishing village there are rarely more than four or five surnames. A surname had not much importance in Maggie’s eyes. She had certainly noticed that “Campbell” frequently met “Promoter;” but certain names seem to have affinities for certain lives; at least certain letters do; and Maggie, quoting a superstition of her class, settled the matter to her own satisfaction, by reflecting “what comes to me wi’ a ‘C,’ aye comes wi’ good to me.”
“And yet when all is thought and said.The heart still overrules the head.”“From the lone shieling of the misty islands.Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas:But we in dreams behold the Hebrides.”
One morning toward the end of July, Mary was reading the “Glasgow Herald.” “Maggie,” she said, “one of the Promoters has evidently left Fife, for I see the name among the list of students—David Promoter—he has done wondrously. The man is a miracle, he has taken every prize in his classes, I think.”
“I’m right glad to hear tell o’ it. I must aye wish weel—”
“Well, Maggie, not weel.”
“Well, to the name.”
It was true. David had overstepped even his own ambition. He had finished the term with an ovation from his fellows, and he had been urged to go with Prof. Laird’s son to the outer Hebrides. And now that the strain of his study was over, and the goal, so far, nobly won, he could afford to remember his sister. Indeed David deserves more justice than these words imply. He had often thought of her since that March afternoon when he had put her into the train for Stirling. But he really believed that his first duty was to his studies, and he fully expected that his letter to Dr. Balmuto would be a sufficient movement to insure her welfare. Practically, he had thrown his own duty upon the minister’s conscience, but he felt sure that the good man had accepted the obligation, for if not, he would certainly have written to him on the subject.
He sent the doctor the newspapers advertising his success, and a couple of days afterward went to Kinkell. Young Laird did not require his company for a week, and he thought well of himself for taking a journey to Fife merely to pleasure his sister, before he took his own pleasure. He had improved much in personal appearance during his residence in Glasgow. He was well dressed, and he had acquired an easy confidence of manner which rather took Dr. Balmuto by surprise. Perhaps it irritated him a little also; for he was not at all satisfied with David. The first words he said were not words of congratulation, they were a stern inquiry.
“David Promoter, where is your sister Maggie? Has she come back with you?”
“I came to ask you about Maggie, sir.”
“Me! What way would you come to me? I have nothing to do with Maggie Promoter.”
“Sir, when she left me last March, I gave her a letter to you, and put her in the train that was to bring her here.”
“What did you write to me about?”
“I told you how unhappy and dissatisfied my sister was at Pittenloch; and I asked you to advise her to stay at Kinkell under your eye. Then none could speak ill o’ her.”
“Why under my eye? Are you not your sister’s natural protector?”
“My studies—my college duties—”
“Your first duty was Maggie. You will be a miserable divine, let me tell you, if you have not plenty of humanity in you; and the kirk and the household are bound together with bands that cannot be broken. What is the worth of all the Greek you know, if you have forgotten your own flesh and blood? I’ll not give you one word of praise, David, until you can tell me that Maggie is well and doing well.”
“My God! Maggie not here! Where then is she? I must awa’ to Pittenloch; maybe she is gone back there.”
“No, she has not gone back. Poor girl! What would she go back there for? To be worried to death by a lad she hates, and a lot of women who hate her? I went to Pittenloch a week after she left, and I had a day of inquiries and examinations; and I can tell you Maggie has been sair wronged. That old woman in your house has the poison of hell under her tongue:—and the lifted shoulder and the slant eye, what woman can stand them? So she went to her brother, as a good girl past her wits would do, and her brother put her on the train and sent her back to her sorrow!”
“I sent her to you, sir. I thought I could trust in you—”
“Why to me, I ask again? You knew that I had spoken sharply to her at the New Year, how was she likely to come to me then? Where is your sister, David Promoter?”
“You should hae written to me, sir, when you found out that Maggie was gone from her hame.”
“I thought, everyone thought, she was with you. I am shocked to find she is not. Whom else can she be with? Whom have you driven her to?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Where is Allan Campbell? That is what you must next find out.”
David looked at the minister like one distraught.
“I can’t understand—I can’t believe—gie me a drink o’ water, sir.”
He was faint and sick and trembling. He drank and sat down a few minutes; but though the doctor spoke more kindly, and set clearly before him what was best to be done, he heard nothing distinctly. As soon as he was able, even while the doctor was speaking, he rose and went out of the house. Sorrow has the privilege to neglect ceremonies, and David offered no parting courtesy, but for this omission the minister was rather pleased than angry with him:
“The lad has some heart, God be thanked!” he muttered, “and the day will come when he will be grateful to me for troubling it.”
David went with rapid steps down the rocks to Pittenloch. How hateful the place looked to him that afternoon! How dreary those few tossing boats! How mean the cottages! How vulgar the women in their open doors! How disagreeable the bare-footed children that recognized him and ran hither and thither with the news of his arrival.
He was full of shame and anger. Where was his praise, where was his honor, with this disgrace in his home? How could he show those newspapers extolling his diligence and attainments, when Maggie had made his very success a disgrace to him? Oh, how bitterly he felt toward her!
Mistress Caird met him at the door with her apron at her eyes: “Come in, sir,” she said, with a courtesy, “though it is a sorrowfu’ house you come to.”
“Aunt Janet, you have been drinking. I smell the whiskey above everything. Ah, there is the bottle!” His sharp eyes had seen it behind the tea caddy on the mantelshelf. He took it and flung it upon the shingle as far as his arm could send it.
“That is my ain whiskey, David; bought wi’ my ain siller, and the gude ken I need a wee drappie to keep my vera heart frae breaking wi’ the sorrow I hae had.”
“Say, wi’ the sorrow you hae made. Pack your trunk, Aunt Janet. I’ll take you to Dron Point in the morning.”
He would talk no more to her. He let her rave and explain and scold, but sat silent on his hearth, and would go and see none of his old friends. But it did console him somewhat that they came crowding in to see him. That reaction which sooner or later takes place in favor of the injured had taken place in Maggie’s favor since the minister’s last visit. Mistress Caird felt that she was leaving Pittenloch something like a social criminal. No one came to bid her farewell. David and a boy he hired took her silently to her old home. She had sacrificed every good feeling and sentiment for popularity, and everyone spoke ill of her.
Getting near to Dron Point, she said to David, “You are a miserable set-up bit o’ a man; but you’ll pay me the #4 10s. you are owing me, or I’ll send the constable and the sherra a’ the way to Glasca’ for it.”
“I owe you nothing, woman.”
“Woman, indeed! Maggie, the hizzy!—agreed to gie me five shillings weekly if I wad say the gude word for her she ne’er deserved, and I havna been paid for eighteen weeks. That mak’s it #4 10s. Just hand o’er the siller and be done wi’ it.”
“It is a theft, an extortion;” but he took a #5 note from his pocket-book and gave her it. “That is a gratuity,” he said, “a gratuity to help you until you find employment. I do not owe you a penny.”
“There’s nae gratuity in honest earned money; and if you wad gie me #50 it wad be too little to pay me for the loss o’ health and time and gude name I hae made through you and yours. Set you up for a minister, indeed! Clean your ain door-stane before you speak o’ other folks. I’m glad to be rid o’ the sight and the hearing o’ you.”
That was the parting shot, and David could have very heartily returned it. But he heeded his Bible rule, and to her railing made no answer. Janet would rather have been sworn at. He left her bargaining with a man to take her blue kist to the village public, but he did not return to Pittenloch. He had given Elder Mackelvine the key of the cottage, and the elder had promised to find a proper woman to care for it. So he sent the boy back with the boat, and found the quickest way from Dron Point to Glasgow.
In his last interview with Allan Campbell, Allan had told him, if any difficulty arose about his money matters, or if he needed more money before he returned, to go to his father; and in view of such an emergency, had given David the address of Campbell & Co. He went there as soon as he arrived in Glasgow. It was in the middle of the afternoon and John Campbell had just gone to his house in Blytheswood Square. The young man who answered his inquiry was pleasant spoken, and trustworthy, and David said to him—“Where is Mr. Allan Campbell?”
“He is in the United States. I believe in New Orleans.”
“When will he return?”
“It is very uncertain. Not for a year or more.”
Then he concluded that Maggie had gone to him. That was the thing Dr. Balmuto feared. What a fool he had been not to suspect earlier what everyone else, doubtless, perceived. One hope yet remained. He wrote to the Largo Bank about the #50. If Maggie had lifted it, then he would feel certain she was doing honestly for herself, in some quiet village, or perhaps, even in Glasgow. But when he found the money had not been touched, he accepted without further hope the loss and the shame. It is so much easier to believe evil than good, even of those we love. Yet, how could David, knowing Maggie as he did, do her this shame? Alas! David Promoter thought very badly of the majority of men and women. It was his opinion that God had so made them, that they preferred evil to good, and only by some special kind of Divine favor and help—such as had been vouchsafed to himself—chose the right road.
He certainly grieved for Maggie; but oh! how bitterly he felt the wrong she had done him. For her own indulgence, how she would curtail and cramp all his future college course! He had hitherto dressed well, and been able to buy easily all the books he needed. For the future he would have to rely upon his own exertions; for his first decision had been to pay back the money he had taken from Allan’s fund, and make the proceeds of his teaching defray his class fees. When he had done this, he had only #8 left, out of the #50 which his father had left accumulated; but he was to receive #25 from Prof. Laird for his two months’ services, and with this #33, and the stray teaching he would certainly find to do, he really had no fear of pushing his way through the next year. But yet he felt keenly the bondage to care and necessity which Maggie’s selfishness had put him under. He never thought of blaming himself. It did not occur to him that she had rights as sacred as his own. “The cruelty of her! The cruelty of her!” he kept saying, as he moodily paced his little room. He did not remember his own indifference, nor reflect that a trifle of kindness, even the small favor of a-weekly visit, would have kept the girl contentedly under his own eye.
But David had marked out his course, and he was not the man to permit any woman to seriously interfere with his plans. He put down with a mighty will his grief and disappointment, and shame, and went off to the Hebrides with his pupil. But in spite of himself, Maggie went with him. He was compelled to be very economical, and he could not quite get rid of anxiety, and of planning for the future, which the change in his money affairs forced upon him. And it was all Maggie’s fault. “Her weakness, her craving ‘to be made of,’ and to be happy, her inability to bear a little feminine gossip, her longing after the companionship of himself —or another.” Maggie, after all, spoiled the trip to which he had looked forward for half a year with longing and delight.
When he returned to the Candleriggs, the first thing he saw was a letter from Maggie. It had been lying upon his table for some weeks. In fact Maggie had written it soon after her removal to Drumloch, but she did not wish to post it from so small a place, and she therefore waited until her first visit to Glasgow, which occurred early in August. She had remembered the time when it was possible that David might go to Pittenloch, and she feared that he would be very miserable when he found out that she had never returned to Kinkell. Without revealing her own location or circumstances, she wished to satisfy him as far as possible of her innocence and welfare; so she had thus written—
“Dear Davie. I am feared you will not get this, ere you find out I did not go back yonder day you sent me. I have met with good friends, and am living honest and happy. Have no fear anent me. I will do right, and do well. Where I am there is no ill can be said of me, and no ill can come to me. I was glad beyond telling to read of your well-doing. You’ll win to the top of the tree, Davie, I aye thought that. Some day, you will find it in your heart to love Maggie, and to forgive her, that she was forced to lay an anxious thought on you. Your true, loving sister, Maggie Promoter.”
The letter was a comfort to him, and for a moment or two a great surprise. The writing was Maggie’s writing, but much improved, the spelling was correct. It was evident that she was trying to teach herself, and it pleased him somewhat; although he was far from considering education as a necessity for women. “To think of Maggie reading the newspapers!” he exclaimed; “but then,” he reflected, “she had doubtless been looking for a word about him,” and with this thought, he became just, even tender, to her memory. As he folded away the letter, he said, “I was wrong to think wrong of her. She was always a good girl, and very fond of me. It would be long ere she would do aught to hurt my good name. It’s no to be thought of.” So with a lighter heart he went bravely to work again, and the weeks and months in their busy monotony passed wisely and quickly away.
To Maggie also, they went wisely and quickly, although life at Drumloch was far from being monotonous. Mary had the quick, nervous temperament which is eager for change and movement. She went frequently into Glasgow to give and to attend entertainments, for Drumloch was yet in the hands of painters and upholsterers. But she always went alone. She had fully made up her mind that it would not be well to let John Campbell see Maggie. If he liked her, he would be sure to write to Allan, and curtail his probation, and Mary felt that such a course would be an injustice to her plans for the gradual preparation of the girl for the position she might have to fill.
So Maggie was left in charge at Drumloch. Almost imperceptibly she rose to this duty. First one thing, then another, was fully grasped by her, until the steward and the housekeeper took her directions as readily as they did those of Miss Campbell. Maggie had a natural aptitude for comprehending small pecuniary and household details, “accounts” did not confuse her, and they did seriously confuse Mary. She could make nothing of the “books” which her head servants rendered weekly, and which were clear to Maggie. So, while Mary was entertaining in Blytheswood Square, and going to dinner parties, and dances, Maggie was equally happy looking after the hundred things which from the village, the farm, the gardens and the house demanded her supervision and direction.
During this winter John Campbell did not often visit Drumloch, and when he did Mary had always a long list of shopping for Maggie to attend to in Glasgow. The change was pleasant to Maggie and it was also pleasant to Mary; for it cannot be denied, that she sometimes, at this period, chafed under her self-imposed duty. Every one has peculiarities; they may be admirable ones, and yet be irritating to those whose peculiarities run in a different direction. There were occasional days in which Mary felt that it was the first necessity of life to get rid of Maggie Promoter for a little while. But she never suffered Maggie to suspect this feeling; she was even at such times effusively kind to her, and generally compromised with her conscience by giving herprotigisome rich or pretty present.
Thus the winter passed, and in May Mary went to London. John Campbell accompanied her; he had not been well for some months and he hoped the change of scene would benefit him. Also, he had a great pride in his niece, and he was no little pleased when she was presented at Court, and for some months reigned a belle in the very best Scottish society in the metropolis. At this time she had not much interest in Drumloch, though Maggie wrote to her daily, and Maggie’s letters were wonderfully clever and amusing. And yet she had not received any special lessons; she had simply passed in a silent sort of way out of a region of ignorance, into one penetrated by the thought of educated men and women. There had been in her mentally a happy unconscious growth upward, like that of a well-watered plant. But no system of education could have been so excellently fitted for her development. The charge taught her self-reliance; the undisputed authority she wielded imparted to her manner ease and dignity, and that nameless something which is the result of assured position. There was also the advantage of a conscious, persistent effort on Maggie’s own part; she tried to make every letter she wrote more neat, and clear, and interesting. She took pride in the arrangement of her hair, was anxious about the fit of her dresses, and did not regard the right mixture of colors in her costumes as a thing beneath her consideration. Early in July Mary returned to Drumloch. She had come as far as Glasgow with a party who were going to Oban. Oban was then little known. During the summer tourists of the wealthy and cultivated classes, who had read Scott’s “Lord of Isles,” came on short pilgrimages to the pretty clachan; but it was not, as now, the Charing Cross of the Highlands, where all the world you see.